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[Liars, Criers, and Brain Vampires]

I'm writing as fast as I can!

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Well, it's more of a story fragment than a finished piece, but it's all I can crank out right now given time constraints.  Enjoy!

Liars, Criers, and Brain Vampires

   Griffith twirled his pencil absentmindedly.  A crumpled piece of school work lay on the desk in front of him.  A half-mummified tome lay closed next to the crumpled sheet.  Griffith was under the impression that it was the text for this particular class, although he had no first-hand evidence of that fact.  He glanced at the clock and groaned inwardly.  Were the hands moving backwards?  Griffith tapped his foot in boredom, drawing furtive glances from the students around him.

   Mrs. Calhoun the teacher cleared her throat like an aggrieved dinosaur.  The wrinkles on her forehead multiplied spectacularly as her brow furrowed, and her thin lips drew back to bare her ancient, yellowing teeth.  The air seemed to be sucked out of the room.  Griffith met her murderous stare briefly, and then pretended to go back to his work again.

   Paper rustled purposefully.  Somebody coughed.  Pencils scratched.  The oppressive stuffiness of the room weighed down on the back of Griffith's neck like a Jovian atmosphere.  The hands of the clock seemed bound like those of a criminal.  The clattering of a dropped pencil on the floor caused the old beast at the head of the class to growl once more.  Griffith needed to escape this prison.

   He silently turned to Davis, his neighbour and partner in crime.  Davis seemed to be entirely absorbed in his work behind his textbook, which of course he was.  His eyes were about two inches from his page as he carefully tended to his penmanship.  Griffith tossed a bit of eraser at him to get his attention.

   Well?, he asked with an intent stare.

   Just about done! Davis replied with a muted gesture.

   We've got to get out of here soon! Griffith urged with an exasperated eye-roll.

   OK, OK, Davis soothed with a smug look.  He finished the last couple loops of ink, and then nodded to Griffith.  They both stood in unison and marched to the front of the class.

   â€œWhat is the meaning of this?” asked Mrs. Calhoun with an ill-concealed sneer. 

   â€œWe have a ...er, appointment ...with Principal Mazarin,” Griffith explained.

   Mrs. Calhoun eyed them both over the top of her thick plastic glasses, an uncertain frown creasing her otherwise wrinkled jaw.  Mrs. Mazarin, the arch-tyrant of the Ponchworth Institute of Secondary Studies, did not have a name that was lightly invoked.  If Mrs. Calhoun was a grumpy old lizard, Principal Mazarin was a three headed fire-breathing dragon.

   Griffith lightly hit Davis on the arm, and in perfect imitation of someone who had forgotten he searched his pockets for the note that he had just forged.  Mrs. Calhoun scowled down at the note, then back at the two boys.

   â€œWell, this is highly unusual,” she muttered, comparing the time on the note to the time on the clock.  “What precisely is this 'appointment' for?”

   Both boys stared at their toes penitently for a few moments before Griffith spoke up.  “It's, uh... to do with the incident yesterday.”

   Mrs. Calhoun frowned even deeper, squinting at first one boy and then the other, trying to detect any hint of deception.  But honestly, Griffith thought to himself, who would ever intentionally want to visit Principal Mazarin?

   Mrs. Calhoun eventually reached the same conclusion.  With great reluctance and a sour expression she opened her desk drawer to retrieve two faded and yellowing hall-passes.  She was obliged to blow the dust off them before neatly writing the time, date, and her signature.

   â€œBondarssen will collect your things if you are not back before class ends,” she muttered, returning to her work and waving them away.  The boys exchanged a quick glance, collected the hall-passes, and proceeded out the door.

      *      *      *      *      *

   â€œI can't believe that worked,” Davis gasped, once they were in the hallway.

   â€œYou gotta have a little faith,” Griffith smirked, giddy with freedom.  “It was the plausibility that lent truth to the lie.  Who would ever lie about meeting with Machete Mazarin?”

   â€œWhat could possibly go wrong?” Davis asked ruefully.

   Their banter was interrupted by a snarky laugh coming down the hallway.  “Oh Em Gee!  Like, who let the dogs out?!”

   â€œGreat,” Davis muttered.  “Grace Smugworth.  The ditsiest loud-mouth in the whole school.”

   â€œI heard she was implicated in that sassy cheerleader scandal,” Griffith whispered back.

   â€œI heard she was super smart until two years ago before her brains sank into her chest,” Davis whispered back.

   â€œI heard she gets out of homework by-”

   â€œLike, I'm totally right here listening to you!” Grace blared, causing the two boys to make frantic hushing motions.

   â€œWhat, like, you're skipping class?” she asked, incredulously.  “You're, like, so going to get busted.  It's best to fess up right now, and, like, uh, totally get your desserts.”

   Davis frowned slightly.  “You mean, get our just deserts?”

   Grace seemed to puzzle over his words for a bit, allowing Griffith to step in.

   â€œWe totally have hall-passes, Gracie,” he said, waving the passes under the girl's nose.  “School business,” he stated with an air of finality.

   â€œLike, whatever....” she replied, flicking her hair and stalking off down the hall.  “Just don't get caught by Whelkins the hall-monitor,” she called over her shoulder.  “He's, like, more of a dorky git than even you two!”

   *      *      *      *      *

   Davis and Griffith emerged from the unguarded photo-copy room with a ream of butt-copies.  They giggled maniacally as they began shoving the folded pages through the grating of random lockers along the hall.  Griffith was having the time of his life until one of his butt-copies shot back out of its own accord.

   â€œNo, no, no,” Griffith chided, picking the paper back up.  “You are destined for this locker, little butt-copy.  Like it, lump it, or STICK IT.”  He jammed the copy back through the grating and waited a few seconds to ensure that it was good and delivered.  He was nodding with satisfaction at a job well done when suddenly the paper was spit out again.

   â€œThe hell?” Griffith wondered aloud, looking up and down the hallway.  “Dude, you seeing this?”

   Davis turned and shrugged, joining his buddy outside the offending locker.

   â€œThis prude-locker is just begging for an ass-calation of hostilities,” Griffith quipped.

   â€œYou think it's in need of a carpet bumming mission?” Davis quipped back.

   â€œAffirmative, rear-admiral sir!” Griffith volleyed.

   â€œShould we attack with the crack of Don?” Davis returned.

   â€œWe'll teach that cheeky bugger,” Griffith shot back.

   â€œI sphincter might be right,” Davis punned.

   â€œOK, STOP, I GIVE UP!” the locker blurted.

   â€œWell, good,” Griffith replied jovially.  “Cause we can go aaaaallll day.”

   â€œLiterally,” Davis nodded.

   â€œSo what's your story, talking locker?” Griffith asked.  “You gotta name?”

   â€œAgent  Caramel,” the locker said.  “Corporal in the sixth form resistance.  I drew reconnaissance duty today.”

   Griffith and Davis exchanged glances.  “Resistance?  What resistance?”

   â€œDon't tell me you haven't noticed the strange comings and goings.  The steady stream of smart students being sent to the office and slowly dumbing-down as the term drags on.  The weird rash marks they get behind the ears.  The almost sycophantic deference shown by staff to Mazarin the Merciless.  The mysterious iridescent orange of the custodian's mop water after scrubbing down Room 101.  The backwards running clocks.  The pathological amnesia of anyone dragged before the arch-fiend herself.  The unsettling texture of the cafeteria meatloaf on Thursdays.  The obsessive testing and grading, fattening up our brains.  It's all connected, man, and our mission is to find out how deep it goes!”

   Griffith and Davis exchanged glances again.  “Uh....  We didn't notice any of that.”

   â€œDo you think maybe spending so much time holed-up in a locker is making you a bit paranoid?” Davis asked.

   â€œWhat do you do when you have to use the bathroom?” Griffith wondered.

   â€œI ensure you that we have considered all contingencies,” the locker replied tersely.  “Now I'm going to say this once, so listen carefully.  There are moles on the inside.  Trust no one.  Don't try to exit through the entrance or you'll be sorry.  If you get into trouble you need to tap the garbage can three times.  Help will always be given to those too stupid to know better.”

   Griffith and Davis exchanged glances a third time.  Griffith was about to say something stupid to prove a point when they were suddenly accosted from behind.

   â€œFREEZE!”

   They both jumped, causing copies of buttocks to fly in every direction.

   â€œWell, well, well....” Willy Whelkins purred, stroking his hall-monitor sash.  “Caught red-handed Distributing Smut.  Also Littering, Cursing, Resisting Arrest, and pack me a cat-food sandwich for lunch if I'm wrong, but I'm betting we can add in Obtaining a Hall-Pass Under False Pretences.  You boys are going down for a looooooong time.”

   â€œHey, we didn't resist arrest!” Griffith complained, turning to his friend.

   Davis, however, had already booked it.

   â€œAh, shit!” Griffith cursed, sprinting after his friend.

   *      *      *      *      *
   
   Principal's office waiting room,  11:25 am.  Which was interesting, given that they had skipped out of class almost an hour ago at 11:15.  Griffith still had the evidence on his hall-pass, neatly scribed by Mrs. Calhoun.  Willy Whelkins sat smugly between him and Davis, making any kind of conversation impossible.  It was only a matter of minutes now before shit truly hit the proverbial fan.

   The door to the principal's office opened, and out stepped Gracie Smugworth wearing a vacant looking expression.

   â€œI guess it's time for I-told-you-so,” Griffith said to her, inviting at least the fireworks of her scorn as a way of lightening the tenseness of the situation.

   But all Gracie did was roll her eyes towards him briefly, mouth agape, before proceeding to the exit.  As she passed Griffith thought he saw a funny rash behind her ear....

   In the meanwhile Whelkins had jumped up out of his seat and proceeded to the door of Principal Mazarin's office.  He knocked politely and stated his business, stroking his hall-monitor sash again.

   â€œEnter,” rasped the husky voice of the Mazarinator.

   â€œDon't go anywhere,” Whelkins said with a knowing wink, before closing the door behind himself.

   â€œDid you see the clock!” Griffith exclaimed to his friend, waving the hall-pass.

   â€œDid you see the rash!” Davis exclaimed back, scratching nervously at the back of his ear.

   â€œNuts to this,” Griffith said, making for the door through which Gracie had just exited.  He couldn't believe it when he turned the knob: “Locked!”

   They both turned towards the only other door of the waiting room that didn't lead to Principal Mazarin's office.  On it in bold letters were the words “Entrance Only”.

   â€œThat weird locker dude who pees in bottles said we'd be sorry if we tried to exit through the entrance,” Davis warned.

   â€œYou want to stay here and get your brain sucked?!?” Griffith freaked.  “I say we do this.”

   Davis scratched behind his ears again.  “Well.... it's not like we can get into any more trouble, eh?”

   Griffith reached for the door handle and gave it a try.  Reassuringly it turned all the way until the latch clicked.  Then the floor gave way beneath them, and they were falling into darkness.....

   
    

Can we have some transparency as to who these "certain applicants" might be?  Do we have to apply early to find out if we qualify? 

Congratulations JudasFm!  A well-deserved victory. 

My original concept was that "happily ever after" for a revolutionary is a fiery death for the cause, as to grow old is to sell out.  I agree 100% with the feedback I've received, though.  I felt obliged to set up the cloak & dagger atmosphere (hence the secret entrance), give some background for the reason for the revolution (hence the meeting), and the importance of the cause over well-being or dignity (hence the two misadventures with the bank director and the armoured truck theft), all building to the chase scene which I really wanted to write.  But it ended up feeling a bit convoluted and unnecessarily long.  Next time I need a cleaner concept and a more ruthless editor. 

As for the ending, realistically they did achieve their happily ever after in a fiery death.  But given that they were magical beings with magical powder in their possession, and there was no direct evidence of their demise, perhaps they did get away in the end?  You have to believe in magic, after all, if you're going to believe in happy endings. 

Mandle loves me again!   Except sometimes when he's drunk....   But sometimes when I'm drunk I love him even more, so it all balances out. 

My "story" was non-fiction and while there is actually an upturned wheelbarrow in my land-lady's vegetable field I don't think there is a dead baby under it, but now I'm kinda scared to go look.

Well, you can't not go and look now.  You'll always wonder otherwise....

But joking aside (and you can pretty much assume that I'm always joking, since I'm rarely very serious), I did find your story sad (emotionally, not as a story), and what I meant to say in a not-too-clear way was that I would find it highly ironic if you were to win given the theme of "happily ever after".  I concur wholeheartedly that happily ever after is a matter of perspective, but as a cynical being I have a hard time equating happiness with naked Darwinian failure.  I guess maybe structurally there weren't enough of the happy moments in your piece for me to really empathise with Panda.  Even the cuddling bit kind of came across as the adoptive family possibly suffocating the poor orphan.  I apologise if my feedback sounded harsh, but my gut reading of the story was "life is brutally harsh except for tiny stolen moments, so the tragedy of senseless death is ok if there were some good times squeezed in there somewhere," which in my opinion is too raw to qualify as a "happily ever after."  But maybe I should get a second opinion: I'll read it to my 9 year old daughter and see what she thinks.     

Having said that, I don't feel I did much better with the theme, so please feel free not to vote for me either. 

[Best Character]

Best Character: I'm going with JudasFM's Dirnec.  The trophy "merlfriend" was a bit flat, and the princess was pretty one dimensional.  But I liked the patient scheming Dirnec demonstrated and his "they'll never beat me on the inside" attitude. 

Best Plot: I'm going with JudasFM here as well.  I was ready for a climactic "third act is the charm" story, but Dirnec in his wisdom decided not to draw the whole process out, which was refreshing.

Best Atmosphere: I'm saying JudasFM again.  The exotic culture of the merfolk was well-balanced with sufficient description to help the reader understand the important things (i.e. how the manacles worked).  There is the little stretch of the woeful princess choosing to mope in the prison pit, but I suppose it's no more of a stretch than a husband making a wife see sense with regard to pets. 

Best Writing: Again JudasFM gets my vote.  I liked the short paragraph style, and the reliance on dialog to drive the story was a plus for me.  Some turns of phrase were also clever: the subtle undercurrent works on so many levels, and "Meruna" wilts (since she's basically just a flower, a pretty object).

Best Ending: I'm going with Mandle at last, mostly because the cat unexpectedly died.  I hope this vote doesn't help you win though, Mandle, since yours was easily the most depressing "happily ever after" story I've ever read.    Mine was bad too, but jeez!  It was hard to wade through the story for all the dead cat corpses bunging up the way.  Why didn't they just find a dead baby under the up-turned wheelbarrow while you were at it?!?    

I had hoped this would be a grand return to the FNC, but sadly it wasn't a happy ending for me. 

But what about the extras, P?  Do we still get the extras? 

[For the Cause]

For the Cause

   The old inn sprawled and sagged like an ancient, twisted oak.  The hooded figure approached, looked discretely up and down the miserable, abandoned lane, then entered.  Inside the public house was a bored looking barkeep and maybe a dozen drinkers seated on rickety looking furnishings.  A few heads turned to stare at the newcomer, but soon returned to the more important business of drinking into oblivion.  The hooded figure strode through their midst purposefully to the back passageway and the toilets.  A quick search confirmed that the lady's room was indeed, as always, empty.  The third stall had its perennial “out of order” sign, and it was there that the figure entered.  A quick flush (no one would ever think of that in such a dank public toilet), and a tile in the back wall slid open to reveal a pair of very suspicious eyes.

   â€œWhat's the password?” the eyes whispered aggressively.

   â€œRevolution!” the hooded figure whispered back.

   The eyes in the wall narrowed.  “That's the old password!” they whispered angrily.

   The hooded figure bowed its head and whispered again, only this time too quietly to be heard by the eyes.  The eyes narrowed further as the hooded figure seemed to convulse as its bottom half disagreed with its top.  At length the figure righted itself and spoke in a dignified whisper.  “The new password is... candy cane.”

   â€œCorrect!” the eyes hissed, and along the tiled wall a secret door opened, revealing a winding staircase and a rough sign reading “Fantasy Society HQ”.  On a shelf next to the staircase stood the creature to whom belonged the eyes, a little imp no more than 12 inches tall.

   The hooded figure pushed back his cowl, which promptly fell to his waste revealing a slender elf standing on the head of a grumpy looking dwarf.  The elf was all smiles, but had a manic glint to his eyes.  “That's a stupid password, Comrade Morty!” the elf said sarcastically in a high-pitched voice, jumping off the dwarf's head and bounding up the stairs.

   â€œTake it up with the boss, Comrade Lief!” Morty rasped after him, waving the elf through.  The dwarf, who was too fat to fit through the hood hole, scowled down at the garment that was now twice too big to fit him.  Indignantly, he hitched up the billowing robe like he were crossing a puddle in a great wedding dress and strode up the stairs.  Morty the imp laughed after him.  “Comrade Gruff, that dress suits you!”

   â€œThings I bear for Cause,” Comrade Gruff grumbled in a thick eastern European accent, following his comrade up the stairs.

   *   *   *   *   *

   The meeting room was dimly lit except for the tiny speaker, a pixie who glowed of her own accord.  As she spoke her emotions intensified and she seemed to glow all the brighter, working herself up into a righteous rage that burned as hot as a drop of pure sunlight.  The crowd was a motley assortment of magical creatures and unhinged humans who were being worked up into a state of frothy fanaticism by the pixie's words.

   â€œAnd now the capitalists conjure their wizardry,” she continued, “at a $479.95 price point for the bourgeoisie to drool over!  The spell is cast, and the masses rend the forests and the fens asunder in exchange for a payment of a couple magic beans.  The snake oil salesmen get fat at the top, the bourgeoisie binge spend to try to keep up in the middle, and the masses starve on a diet of empty promises and false hope at the bottom.  This is a society sickened with the plague of materialism!  It lashes out in fits and spasms, in full denial of how sick it is and woefully ignorant of the cure!  Whatever can the remedy be?!?” the pixie asked with rhetorical flourish.

   â€œReal magic!” called a few members of the crowd.  “Grimmism!” cried yet others, extolling the creed inadvertently set out by 19th century philologists.  “Liberation!” shouted the most fervent, the elf Lief and the dwarf Gruff among them.

   The tiny pixie put her finger to her lip to bid the gathering to come to order.  “When a body is so sick that it begins to spiral towards death, is that the time for a plaster or an aspirin?”

   â€œNo!” the crowd chanted in unison.

   â€œWhen an organism's very survival is at stake, is that the time for a hot water bottle and a lemon toddy?!”

   â€œNo!” the crowd called out again.

   â€œWell if the body of society is so ghastly ill, what remedy is sufficiently radical to shock it out of its death throes?!?”

   â€œRevolution!” the crowd shouted ecstatically.

   â€œThat's right, comrades!” the pixie cried.  “But it might get messy, oh yes, it might.  Is it right to use proportionate violence, to bring humanity to its senses?”

   â€œYes!” the crowd called.

   â€œIs it right to commit murder, if it averts a war that kills millions?”

   â€œYes!”

   â€œAre we just and righteous to prune 1% of the foliage to save the rest of the tree of Earth?”

   â€œYes!  Yes!  YES!” the crowd chanted, none louder than Lief and Gruff in the front row.

   â€œThen hear me out, comrades, for in our day of most desperate need now is the hour of action!  The central committee of this glorious society has created a plan to strike the head from the Beast.  But we lack resources.  Brave is the brotherhood of arms we have formed over these many years, and strong is our resolve.  But what good is an axe against a Narvaa S23 Stroke Harvester, I ask?”

   â€œErrr...?” went some in the crowd.

   â€œWhat good is an enchanted bow and arrow against an M230 Chain Gun?” the pixie continued, trying to win back the crowd.  “About as good as bringing a butter knife to work at a slaughterhouse!  We need to level up, comrades!  When the time comes to overthrow capitalism, we can't bring a knife to a gunfight!  We need to buy some serious Russian-made military kit!”

   There were now more than a few sideways glances in the crowd, but the pixie could see that a few fervent believers at the front were still spellbound by her speech.  She straightened her back and pushed her glow up to maximum intensity.  “What we need now is for some brave comrades to rob a capitalist armoured truck to help us finance our magical revolution!  It will be tough, and it will be dangerous.  Who believes so fervently in our cause that they are willing to sacrifice life and limb for the Cause?!?”

   By this point Comrade Lief and Comrade Gruff alone were on their feet in the front row.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

   Comrade Gruff reclined naked on the gilded cushion, his long beard artfully draped to conceal his sexing organs.  Across from him on the bed lounged Elysia, a 600 pound woman of insatiable appetite.  She was currently dipping Mars bars into a bucket of melted ice cream and then cramming them whole into her mouth.  Melted ice cream dribbled off her chin to feed several rivulets on her chest, which in turn converged to form a veritable river flowing through the gorge of her cleavage.  Seeing the dwarf staring at her she gave him a teasing wink.  “I'll let you mop up in aisle three in a little bit, Sugar!”

   Comrade Gruff had to stifle a gag and forced himself to look the woman in the eyes.  They were bloodshot from the dry hotel air and too much screen-time, but they were still by far the woman's least disgusting attribute.  They might have been even pretty once, a pair of sapphire gemstones implausibly set in dolomite skin.  But now her face seemed too small for a head swollen with ballooning jowls and multiplying chins.  And the head itself seemed more of a circus ball perched atop some kind of bloated porpoise beached in a nest of plastic wrappers.  He shuddered despite himself and turned back to the eyes.  Think of Cause, he told himself over and over again.  Think of Cause!

   â€œI don't know how you get cold with all that body hair, Sugar,” Elysia panted, sweat beading on her forehead as she pulled another chocolate bar slowly through the viscous cream.  “It's like you're wrapped up in a little pageant girl's fur coat!  Still, I bet it beats Waxing Wednesdays down at Chez Stupot....”  Wherever this line of thought was going it ended with a mouth stuffed full of sugar and the revolting rivers flowing anew.

   A sudden beeping erupted from somewhere in the room, and an armband stretched taught on the woman's left arm started flashing red.  “Aw, kill joy!” Elysia cursed, spraying cream across the bed.  “Sugar,  be a sweetie plum and go fetch momma's insulin!”

   Escape at last!  Comrade Gruff rolled off the bed and grabbed the giant suitcase off the pile.  A pair of hands emerged from the slightly unzipped zipper of the bag beneath soon followed by a gasping elf mouth.

   â€œNot there, Sugar!  In my purse!”  Elysia strained herself to wave towards the other side of the bed.  Gruff reluctantly abandoned his comrade once more to rummage through the sea-cow's purse.  Candy wrapper, candy wrapper, liposuction loyalty card, candy wrapper, cell phone....

   â€œHey, is what beeps?” Comrade Gruff asked, turning the phone on.  Curses, biometrically locked!

   â€œNag, nag, nag!  It's worse than a doctor,” Elysia whined, grabbing the cell phone and pushing her pudgy finger print into the touch screen.  Comrade Gruff made sure to note which finger.

   â€œThis one?” he asked, holding up a cartridge.

   â€œThat's momma's laxatives.”

   Comrade Gruff stifled another shudder and replaced the cartridge.  “This one?” he asked again, holding up a tube.

   â€œThat's momma's ass-rot cream.”

   Think of Cause!  Think of Cause!

   â€œThis one?”

   â€œThat's momma's sleeping pills.  Oh, just bring the whole thing over here!”

   While Elysia rummaged through the purse Comrade Gruff was able to discretely dump most of the sleeping pills into the ice cream tub.  He doubted whether she'd notice the tiny anomalies the way she ate, although he marvelled that such tiny doses could bring down such a large being.  The words “elephant tranquillizer” on the bottle were reassuring.

   â€œUh, wow!” Gruff gaped in mock admiration.  “You can tell how important person is by how much medication in bag.  You must have very high stress job at bank!”

   â€œOh, we can't all make a living as a Swedish Man Toy, Sugar!  I've been running Daddy's bank since he got that horse-body implant.  Centaurs were a fad with the Russian models back in the 2020s.  Anyway, now I work 24/7.  While we make love I'll be using this app to check up on derivatives, for-ex, counter-parties, bond-spreads, and even security.”

   â€œWow!” Comrade Gruff gaped again.  In his peripheral vision he could see that Comrade Lief had finally freed himself from the bag.

   A few moments passed while Elysia played with her phone until she finally noticed Comrade Gruff standing there.  “Uh, hello?!  It's back to work time, Sugar.  We're both on the clock here!”

   Think of Cause!

   *   *   *   *   *   *

   BAM!

   â€œWhat was that?!?” the driver of the armoured car asked, slamming on the brakes.

   â€œSounded like we hit something,” his partner replied, undoing his seatbelt and reaching for the door.

   â€œWhoa, whoa, whoa!” the driver cautioned.  “It's 3 AM on an abandoned stretch of road.  Let's just follow protocol and call it in.”

   â€œWhat, afraid of a half-dead coyote?” the partner mocked.  He drew his gun and made sure the safety was off.  “Live a little, Aunt Mae!  I'm gonna go check it out.  Maybe shoot something to put it out of its misery.  You cover me.”

   â€œThis is a bad idea, man,” the driver warned, unholstering his own weapon.  “On three?”

   â€œOne, two-” the partner was out the door already.

   â€œShit!” the driver cursed, and followed.

   Maybe a hundred feet behind the truck a lump lay motionless in the middle of the road.

   â€œWell, it ain't twitchin',” the partner said with disappointment, slowly approaching the lump.

   â€œHey, it's not an animal,” the driver remarked, noting that the tiny lump seemed to be wearing clothes.  The size and shape of the lump suddenly made his stomach wrench up into a pretzel.  “Oh shit!” He turned to the side of the road and started barfing doughnuts.

   His partner was more macabre.  Holstering his gun, he approached the child-sized lump, which was sprawled awkwardly over pavement.  A tiny hood concealed its head.  Steeling himself, the partner grabbed an edge of the fabric and pulled it back to reveal a bizarre looking child with a sinister grin on his face.

   â€œHissss!”

   The child suddenly came to life like a demon, biting down hard on the partner's gun arm.  “Ahhhh!  Ah! Fuck!  Get it off!” he screamed.   He couldn't reach his gun with his good hand, so he started shaking his arm violently.  The child was flung this way and that, its neck snapping in unholy directions, but still its jaws were locked.  He turned and started rotating his arm in great windmills, slamming the child against the tarmac with all of his strength.  “Ahhhhh!”

   He turned to see why the driver hadn't taken action, and was puzzled to see him lying on the road side, a bearded dwarf standing over him with a frying pan.  Suddenly the demented gremlin-child was on his face, screaming nonsense. 

   â€œSuck sock puppet, capitalist pig!”

   Something fuzzy suddenly obstructed his airway as he frantically grabbed at his assailant.  Then there was a deafening gong sound of iron hitting skull, and he fell dazed to the ground.

   â€œSock puppet?” Comrade Gruff asked quizzically.

   His elf comrade simply chuckled maniacally.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

   The desert at dawn.  Sirens whined incessantly as the police cruisers charged after the armoured truck, four abreast on the abandoned freeway.  Lief leaned out the window of the truck to chuck a throwing knife at their wheels, and was met with a hail of bullets.  He quickly pulled himself back inside.

   â€œState line,” Comrade Gruff commented, waving at a sign that drifted by in a blink of an eye.  “Five miles.”

   â€œPatsies'll never take us alive!” Comrade Lief shouted.  He was missing two teeth and sported a black eye from his encounter with the armoured car driver.  Comrade Gruff winced as he coughed.  He had several cracked ribs from his night with Elysia, and emotional bruises that were much, much more painful. 

   â€œThey'll have barricade up at line,” he mused.

   â€œWe'll have to ram it!” Comrade Lief punched the air. 

   Comrade Gruff could see now how his friend would never surrender, no matter how hopeless it was.  He laughed despite the shot of pain in his chest.  It probably was always hopeless....  He sighed.  “They'll have tire spikes laid up across road, probably two hundred yards out from barricade.  Even if we don't tip, we'll never retain speed to ram through.” 

   Comrade Lief twitched in his seat, staring out across the barren landscape.  “We'll have to go off-roading!” he said enthusiastically.

   Comrade Gruff shrugged.  “Is canyon,” was his only reply.

   Comrade Lief squirmed in his seat.  “We have to try.  For the revolution!  For the Cause!”

   Comrade Gruff nodded affirmingly.  “For Cause.”  He reached into his robes and pulled out a fat cuban cigar.  “Is lighter in glove box?” he asked.

   Comrade Lief rummaged around in the glove box and found one. 

   â€œYou don't mind?” Comrade Gruff asked.

   â€œHa ha ha, no,” Comrade Lief replied.  He lit his friend's cigar, and then played with the lighter.  “Ha ha ha, fire, FIRE!” he said excitedly to himself.

   Comrade Gruff puffed happily on his cigar for a few moments before flicking his ash out the window.  “Ready, comrade?”

   The elf bounced happily in his seat.  “Let's screw those capitalist fat cat bastards out of a couple million!”

   Comrade Gruff genuinely smiled for the first time in years.  “Screw fat cat bastards,” he repeated in his thick accent.  “For Cause!”

   â€œFor the Cause!” Comrade Lief cried, punching at the air again.

   Comrade Gruff swerved the armoured truck off the road, steering it directly into the glare of the rising sun.  A plume of dust shot out from behind the truck's wheels, almost obscuring the line of flashing lights that now fanned out widely in pursuit.  “Hey, look!” he shouted over the rumbling wheels.  “Coyote!”  The animal dove for cover in its den as the truck shot past.  “Is magical world, no?”

   Comrade Lief giggled uncontrollably.  “You know, some magical beings can fly!” he shouted.

   Comrade Gruff smiled back.  “I am believing in magic,” was all he said.

   Comrade Lief held up a tiny vial of fairy dust, a crazed glint in his eye.

   Comrade Gruff had to laugh again, despite the pain.  “Is just cocaine for smurfs,” he said.  “No aerodynamic properties.”

   â€œYou gotta believe!” Comrade Lief cried, eyes darting towards the fast approaching canyon rim.

   â€œI am believing in Cause,” Comrade Gruff reaffirmed.  “I am believing in magic.”

   â€œThen punch it!” the elf screamed rapturously, shaking the contents of the vial so that a cloud of fairy dust filled the truck cabin.

   The police cruisers screeched to a halt in a cloud of dust at the canyon rim, shaking their heads at the craziness of perps these days.  When the dust finally settled they could see not a trace of the armoured truck against the morning glare.
   

I finally have.... an idea!!!! 

Not exactly a happy beginning to the competition, but that will just make the ending that much sweeter. 

[Sinitrena]

By my calculation it's now a tie between the real fake entries of Sinitrena and jahnocli with 7 votes each, so I'm hereby invoking my right as contest administrator to break the tie.

I think in my comments above I indicated a slight preference for Sinitrena's work this round, but even without that being the case I would have to decide in her favour due to jahnocli's choice not to vote.  While I respect jahnocli's analysis that it is somewhat absurd to vote for the only option available, it has been the traditional thing to do in this contest when there have been only two entries.  Call it classy or call it totalitarian doublethink, it's still the way we roll around here.  Sinitrena's point that it places her at a distinct disadvantage, having given jahnocli 5 of his 7 votes herself, has greater weight than any philosophical argument against voting when there's only one choice.

Thus, the final official results for the fake contest are as follows:

Sinitrena wins first place with 7 + 1 votes.

jahnocli wins a close second place with 7 votes.

Mandle slips to third place amidst charges of massive electoral fraud.... 

I'd hand out the trophies at this point, but as I said before they were all fake as well.    Actually, this whole contest has just been a massive head in Emerald City.  Actually, this whole contest has just been a wabbit dressed as a busty nurse.  Actually, this whole contest has just been a wow butter and spam sandwich.  I'd like to stay and explain myself, but I'd almost certainly just get tangled in my own web of deceit.  See you all next time in the next exciting instalment of....

...The Fortnightly Writing Competition!

Huh.  Perhaps I should reconsider my fake results and allow JudasFm to vote....

Very well!  Voting is open for one more day! 

[Sinitrena]

....but with just two (real...fake) entries...

I'm pretty sure if you added up all the real and fake entries the total would be three... 

I think it's time to close this round, don't you agree, Baron?

Oh, very well.  Announcing the results of the fake writing competition!  Can we have a synthetic drum roll, please?

Sinitrena with 3 well-earned votes.

jahnocli with 6 well-deserved votes.

Mandle with a record 137 somewhat suspect votes.

So the fake winner is Mandle!!!1!!!  He was a dark horse, yes, but sometimes even in democracies you get some serious flukes.  Some people speak of the wisdom of crowds, but some other people look askance at those first people because, seriously, sometimes you just gotta look at the crowd and wonder wtf??

I made some fake trophies for everyone.  Mandle gets the golden sloar of Uruk.  Jahnocli receives the silver jabberwocky which is quite brillig and slithy in the wabe.  Sinitrena gets this imitation knock-off Lough Ness platypus.  I'm not sure what to tell you about that one.  Congratulations?   

If I may be permitted to give some feedback?  I thought Sinitrena's entry had a great set-up.  I love how the faker's downfall was the product of her own hubris AND design at the same time.  I hated that Gracie was such a shallow narcissist, but I guess that made her a great character for the purpose of the story.  Jahnocli's story reminded me more of an Ocean's 11 style caper, with everyone doing their small part.  I'd heard of this deception before, but not the details, so top marks for combining a well-researched historical event with the mandatory ruse of the theme.  I'm not sure you achieved the suspense or comeuppance that was recommended, unless you fast-forward 75 years to Britain's xenophobic rejection of the benefits of cooperating with the continent.    Mandle.... well, what can I say?  In terms of the fakiest fakeness, you are the black-belted doctorate-bearing chess-master guru! 

Well, some input is better than none. 

Gah, I goofed by not changing the OP title to advertise the voting.    I'll extend the voting to Saturday in hopes of garnering more input from the reading community.

[jahnocli]

And that's a wrap, folks.  We've got three incredible entries to choose from:

jahnocli with Who Ya Gonna Fake?
Sinitrena with The Music of Grace
Mandle with Fake Invisible Entry

The voting categories are, as promised:

Best Character: A really genuine faker of the fakiest kind.
Best Fake: Which character was able to pull off the most audacious fraud?
Best Plot: The most suspense created as the fake is about to be uncovered.
Best Writing: Which writer can best fake grammar competence, spelling proficiency, and word-choice prowess?
The Fake Vote: This one is a bluffer's dream come true.  Is if for best overall, or fakest entry?  You be the judge!

Voting closes Tuesday December 11, but I won't get to wrapping everything up until the 12th in case you're planning on cutting it close.  Good luck to all participants and may the best writer win.

Two entries doth a competition make, but it would be nice to have a few more.  One more day!!!

I'd like to thank you all for feigning faking interest in this topic.

Just a reminder: you've got about 4 days left to fake up an entry!

[Faker's Gonna Fake]

What do Bridget Jones, Krusty the Clown, and Neville Chamberlain all have in common?  A façade of competence and the sword of Damocles dangling just above their heads.  A player's gonna play, and a hater's gonna hate.  So what's a poor faker to do?

Faker's Gonna Fake


Nobody likes a phoney in real life, but god they get into such great predicaments for story telling!  Teenagers trying on new personas like they're clothes-shopping at the mall, corporate yuckity-yucks throwing around buzzwords like they somehow make sense, politicians lying through their teeth just to disprove the rumours that someone just shaved a monkey and put a tie on him: it's a faker's paradise out there!  Your mission in this competition is to create a character self-delusional enough to believe that, despite a lack of genuine skill and experience, they can do it just like the pros!  It'd be great if there was some sort of reckoning at the end, actual or implied, but that's just for bonus points.

Deadline: All entries are to be submitted by Friday December 7.

Word Limit:  It's gotta fit all in one post.  Faker's not gonna put in extra work, why should you?

Possible Voting Categories: I might change my mind over the next two weeks, but right now I'm thinking:

Best Character: A really genuine faker of the fakiest kind.
Best Fake: Which character was able to pull off the most audacious fraud?
Best Plot: The most suspense created as the fake is about to be uncovered.
Best Writing: Which writer can best fake grammar competence, spelling proficiency, and word-choice prowess?
The Fake Vote: This one is a bluffer's dream come true.  Is if for best overall, or fakest entry?  Hmmmmm....  A wild card indeed!

Good luck to all entrants!

Thanks guys.   It's not a universal brand of humour, but I'm glad there's still a market segment for absurdist fiction.

I'll try to get the next competition up and running soon.